


Expedition- an Ex Files Special

by 7PercentSolution



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autistic Sherlock, Big Brother Mycroft, Gen, Kidlock, Protective Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 23:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7953358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Expedition [ek-spi-dish-uhn]</p><p>Noun. An excursion, journey or voyage made for some specific purpose, as of war or exploration.</p><p>A nine year old Sherlock goes on a journey, in which much is discovered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Expedition- an Ex Files Special

 

* * *

"What do you mean, _missing?_ The panic in Violet's voice was clear on the telephone line. Mrs Walters tried to sound as reassuring as possible. "M'Lady, please don't be alarmed. I'm sure we'll find him soon."

"What happened? " There was the ferocity of a mother's voice in that question, and it made Mrs Walters take a deep breath, as the Viscountess continued, "When I rang the day before yesterday, everything was _fine_. Sherlock sounded _fine_. What changed?" This was the demand of an aristocratic woman used to having things her own way. The only real surprise in her life had been a son with special needs. And she'd approached his care with the drive and commitment that still astonished some professionals, who thought that her son would never amount to much. She'd taken great pleasure in sending them regular reports as he began to excel at academic subjects, play the violin and earn the coveted "high functioning" label.

The Housekeeper decided the truth needed to be told, even if it precipitated another domestic disagreement. "Mister Holmes got back early from his business trip to Singapore. Last night he decided to have supper and insisted on Sherlock joining him at the table. I'm not sure why, but I think they quarrelled. I heard Mister Holmes' voice raised, and he sent Sherlock to bed with his supper only half-finished. Told me in no uncertain terms to leave the boy alone to think over his mistakes. Mister Holmes left for London this morning early, and when I went to get Sherlock down for breakfast, I found his room empty."

"Have you searched the house properly? His favourite hiding places?"

"Yes, m'Lady, of course. The Gamekeeper thinks he must be out in the grounds somewhere. He says he's found the boy out and about at odd hours before."

"Why haven't I been _told_ about that? You know Sherlock shouldn't be allowed to wander about, he loses track of time and gets fascinated with something for hours. He could get lost; he's _vulnerable_."

"I'm well aware of that, m'Lady." Mrs Walters often thought that working for the Holmes family was similar to a tight wire act- balancing between so many _forceful_ characters demanded a great deal of tact. Things had become difficult between the Viscountess and her husband when their elder son went off to Eton. Without his intermediation, the three left behind fought more. Mycroft had learned the art of diplomacy from an early age, by trying to keep peace between his mother and father, especially when it involved conflict over the younger son.

The housekeeper tried to sound reassuring. "He's just sulking somewhere. I'm sure Wallace and the others who are looking will find him soon enough. You know he used to hide in the grounds to get his brother to come find him."

"Yes, well, Mycroft is at Eton, and won't be able to help from there. Perhaps I should come back early. If I can get a flight back today…"

"No, m'Lady. You _mustn't_. You really need to rest and recover your health. You've been poorly, and need the sunshine and warmth to get your strength back. I'll keep you informed, I promise. You just let us find him and sort him out."

There was a sigh from the other end of the line. "You do that, Walters. He's not like other children; he won't realise he's being naughty. Just find him, _please_. And I want you to call me every hour until you find him."

oOo

Three hours later, Mrs Walters called Eton and asked to speak to Mycroft. Sunset was coming, and the search parties had no luck in finding the boy. She was dreading the next call she would have to make to the Viscountess.

"Hello? Mrs Walters? What can I do for you?" The sixteen year old Mycroft sounded slightly on edge; a call from the Housekeeper to the college would not be made unless there was something wrong.

"It's your brother. He's …gone missing. You're the expert in finding him, can you give us any advice?"

"How long has he been hiding?" Mycroft tried to stop himself from sighing audibly. _Really. Am I my brother's keeper? Mummy goes to France and the staff just let Sherlock loose?_

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "At least ten hours- could be more if he left the house last night- maybe as long as eighteen hours. We aren't sure."

That made Mycroft's eyes widen. Never, ever had Sherlock been gone for more than a few hours. Even if he went out at night- and yes, he'd caught him doing that a few times last summer- he knew to be back in his bed by dawn. His brother wasn't stupid. He knew the rules- _Don't upset Mummy; if she knows you're creeping out; she'd lock the doors and windows. Do the sensible thing, Sherlock._

"Does Mummy know?" He tried to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

"Yes, and she's now saying she'd going to have to fly back from France. If only we can find him in the next hour; then she'll stay, and she needs to stay. You haven't seen her since Easter. She's been unwell, and needs the break." The housekeeper's tone was getting more and more anxious.

Mycroft tried to keep her focused on practicalities. "Alright- I assume you've looked in all the usual places and he isn't in the house. Wallace, the gardeners and the farm crew will have been searching the grounds, no doubt?"

"Yes, of course."

"Why did he hide, Mrs Walters? That may influence his choice."

"Your father came home last night, and made Sherlock have dinner with him. They had a row and he sent Sherlock to bed without finishing his supper."

 _Oh, God. That changes things._ Mycroft tried to put himself in his brother's shoes. And didn't like the answer he came up with. "Mrs Walters, I think you need to contact the police. Sherlock may have run away- actually left the estate completely."

"Oh, _no_! Please don't say that…I've been trying to reassure her ladyship that this is just another one of his sulks. If something has happened to him, I will never forgive myself!" The Housekeeper was now almost weeping; Mycroft could hear it in her voice.

"Is Father still there? Can I speak with him, please?"

"He left for London very early this morning before I knew about Sherlock, and I…well, I haven't told him yet."

"Leave that with me, Mrs Walters. When Mummy calls, tell her the truth. She's going to want to come back. Sherlock would not be _hiding_ for this long. Something else is going on. Whatever happens, call the police and tell them. They need to be searching, too." Then Mycroft paused. "And Mrs Walters, call me, leave a message. I want to know what is going on. If Mummy wants me to come home, I will."

As soon as he ended that call, he asked the Dame*, Mrs Ranstor, for permission to make another call. "It's urgent- a family emergency, m'am; my mother is in France and my father needs to be told something."

With permission, he used the phone booth- a little box room that was set aside for the boys in Godolphin House, to use for personal calls. They had to be booked and paid for, and they were rationed. He called the London townhouse number, and his father's butler answered.

"Wilson, I need to speak with Father urgently. Is he available?"

"I will check; please hold the line." Mycroft tried to keep his impatience at bay, but it was almost seven minutes before the phone was picked up again.

"Mycroft, what a pleasant surprise. I thought you weren't allowed to make phone calls from Eton."

"Not under normal circumstances, but Father this is an emergency. Did you know that Sherlock has gone missing?"

"Missing? What?! What's the bloody idiot done this time?" The warmth in the tone that had greeted Mycroft evaporated, replaced now by a cold anger.

"What happened, Father? Walters said you had a row with Sherlock. What did he do?"

"What does that matter? If the boy is so gormless as to wander off and the staff can't keep him under control, it's really time he was sent away to a school that can deal with people like him."

Mycroft stifled the sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. Calmly, he started again. "What matters right now is trying to find Sherlock. They've looked everywhere on the estate and can't find him; he's been missing for at least ten hours, so I've told her to telephone the police and to tell Mummy the truth when she calls."

"Mycroft! The _police_ don't need to be involved. That's ridiculous and embarrassing. Now the whole bloody county will know that you've got an idiot for a brother. The fool's just wandered off. He does that. They'll probably find him sitting on the steps of the shop in Cootham or Rackham. They just have to look. He can't have gone far; he's too thick to know any better."

"Father, I have to go now. I just thought you…might want to know. Mummy is likely to be getting a flight back as soon as she can. Can you please tell the staff in the London house, just in case…Sherlock might phone or something?"

"Not likely…you know he can't stand using the phone. I'm not sure he even knows the telephone number. And he's hardly likely to get on the right train or bus to make it here on his own, is he?" Mycroft heard an irritated sigh from his father. "Well, I just hope this gets sorted quickly. I'm due to fly out to Kuala Lumpur tomorrow evening."

"I will try to keep you informed, Father, but I'm not able to use the phone much here. I expect Mummy will call you as soon as she gets home. Goodbye now." He didn't wait for his father to say anything more before putting the phone down.

 _Where_ are _you, Sherlock? Please be_ _sensible_ _about this._

oOo

The swelling around Sherlock's right eye had receded a bit, so it didn't bother his vision anymore. He probed the bruising over his cheekbone. It didn't hurt as much now as it had yesterday. And it didn't feel the same way as his collarbone had felt when he fell out of the tree and broke it. The pain was more a dull ache than a stabbing one. On the mend then, as Mummy used to say when he recovered from yet another childhood accident. He fished the knife out of his mac pocket and opened it. A Swiss army knife by Victorinox, it was his pride and joy, a gift from his brother on his ninth birthday, five months and seventeen days ago. Dates mattered to Sherlock. Looking up at the new green leaves just unfurling in the spring sunshine on the branches above his head, he counted the time in minutes and seconds - 144 days equalled 207,360 minutes or 12,441,600 seconds. He liked maths; it was safe.

He brought his knees up to his chest and rocked. It didn't matter out here. In a field of wheat in the middle of nowhere; with his back to the copper beech tree, he could do what he wanted, no one was watching. Not his mother- she was in France. Not his father- he was back at the house, or, maybe by now he'd left again on business in London. He spent a lot of time at the London townhouse on South Eaton Place. Sherlock liked that fact, because he didn't like his father. The fact that it was the back of his Father's hand that had created the swelling and bruising didn't really surprise Sherlock; he knew that his father hated him.

The field was in the foothills of the South Downs. Looking over his shoulder, Sherlock could see the dark wooded areas to the north that he knew he would have to cross before reaching the outskirts of Guildford. If he could fly like a bird, he was twenty seven miles from home. By foot, he'd walked much further. He had decided against using the roads because too many cars rushed by startling him with the noise and petrol fumes, or even worse, car drivers stopped and offered him a lift, when his mother had always said he shouldn't talk to strangers. So that meant he avoided inhabited areas; villages made him nervous. On the first morning, he'd been asked too many times by people suspicious about a nine year old walking on his own. At one point, he'd been chased by a man who said he was trespassing. After that, Sherlock kept to the footpaths and the bridle trails as much as possible. If he heard anyone coming, he hid. He went around houses and farmyard areas where people might be.

He was on his way to Eton, just across the Thames River from Windsor. He was going to find his brother there. He'd been walking for ages; two nights and this was the second day. He liked walking at night better- then he could walk on the back roads. He could see headlights coming and hide, so it was quicker going. And he could walk straight through villages without a worry that someone might see him. On the outskirts of Horsham last night, he'd found some cold chips out the back of the Fish&Chip shop, and eaten those. He knew enough about bacteria to be picky about what he took out of a bin- these had been in a box, prepared but perhaps not picked up? He'd done experiments on food rotting, and knew that 'best before' did not mean the same as 'use by' dates. The little sealed tub of coleslaw was okay. Anyway, the packet of ketchup helped and he was no longer hungry.

So, he decided to rest a bit here in the field with the big copper beech tree in it. His left shoe was rubbing a blister, so he'd taken it off and the sock to let it breathe a bit. But he didn't feel like taking a nap. He was tired but not sleepy, too excited by all the new stimulation. So, he decided to carve his initials in the tree. He wanted to make his mark. That's what people called it. A sort of defiant "I was here". His father had shouted at him that he would never amount to anything, never make a "meaningful contribution", whatever that meant.

He'd spent most of his life being told what he couldn't do. And being alone like this for more than thirty five hours was just so _exciting_. It was an adventure. No one to tell him what he couldn't do. He found it exhilarating. He'd actually laughed out loud the first time he'd pulled his trousers down and peed against the fence alongside the path alongside the River Arun. He'd been desperate at first, but then realised that there was no one to be shocked and pull a face, tell him to "be a good boy" and "behave himself" by going to a bathroom. At home, he was surrounded by people telling him what to do, all day, every day- even Mummy. _Especially_ Mummy. Out here, no one saw if he flapped his hands, or rocked against the tree. He felt free.

Yes, it was scary, too. There were so many new places, nothing was familiar. It made him anxious at times, particularly when people were about. He didn't like people he didn't know. He had no idea what they were thinking, and whether they were going to be bothered by him. All those faces looking at him made him anxious. That was another reason to do his walking at night. He'd learned how to find his way in the dark by spending nights out at home- Northpark Woods and Humphries Copse were his two favourites. There was a badger sett over by the estate wall; Frank Wallace, the Gamekeeper, showed it to him, and he'd spent hours out there, downwind and just far enough away not to frighten them when they came out. He had read they liked earthworms, so he spent a whole afternoon collecting them from the compost heaps, and then left them as a present. He used Mycroft's binoculars to watch them in the moonlight, eating his gift to them.

Walking alone helped calm him down. And he didn't feel "lost" at all. Everyone all his life had kept hold of his hand (he _hated_ being held that way; hated their touch). They told him "don't go wandering off; you'll get lost." Didn't those people know that even if that the roads and paths looked different from those he was used to, so long as he followed the map in his head, it didn't matter that he hadn't actually walked there before? Couldn't they use maps? He had spent days looking at the Ordinance Survey Maps tracing the route between the house and Eton College. When Mummy asked him why, he told her that pirates needed to know how to read maps. These were good maps; he'd learned all the marks and symbols and what they meant, how to read the topographic lines and realise that it meant there were hills, or little valleys going down to streams and rivers. Then he read a lot about geography and the landscape. It was all so _fascinating._ And now he was actually walking across fields he had once only seen as just marks on the maps in his mind. Thinking it all through was enough to calm him down whenever the people got him worried.

The _**S**_ was proving a challenge to carve- the knife liked straight edges and he had to go very slowly to make the blade work a smooth curve. His hand was already starting to hurt, but he heard his father's comment washing around in his head- _You'll never amount to anything_. So he wouldn't give up. He _had_ to finish this- and the _ **H**_ , too. He kept getting distracted, trying to understand just why it was so hard to do the curves. Was it because of the lack of bend in the metal? He wondered what the metal was made of. He couldn't test it with his chemistry kit- Mycroft would not be happy if he damaged it in an experiment.

oOo

The Deputy House master was standing in the hallway at the front door of Godolphin House staring at the apparition in front of him. Somewhere under all the dirt, the ripped and torn clothing, the muddy shoes and tangled hair, was a small boy. Perhaps. It might be a girl, the hair was long enough. Too young to be one of the college's pupils. And the scent alone was enough to make the Eton boys going in and out of the House on their way to classes walk in a wide circle around it, staring. The contrast between their uniform of black tailcoats, black waistcoats, grey striped trousers and smart white shirts with stiff collars and the…mess of the child made everyone stare as they walked by.

The master's nose wrinkled. Not only did the child _look_ horrible, the scent was _disgusting._ He characterised the smell emerging from it as a mixture of _farmyard excrements_ , if it was possible to categorise.

"Who are you and why are you standing in my hallway making things dirty?"

The apparition had been looking around the hall, and his gaze came back toward the master, but he didn't make eye contact, instead looking down at the floor to the left of the Master's feet.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes-and my brother is Mycroft Holmes-he goes to Eton and lives at Godolphin House- this house-it took me _ages_ to find this one-why are there so many different college houses?-no one wanted to help me find him- but I am here now and I need to speak with him-it's important." This came out at breakneck speed, with no pauses for breath.

It was just conceivable. The Master knew all fifty three of the boys at Godolphin, and Mycroft Holmes at sixteen was the House Captain. But making a familial connection between the impeccably turned out and always immaculately correct Holmes and this…creature … standing in front of him was difficult. It might be an elaborate prank being executed by one of Holmes' classmates.

"Sit. Over there." He pointed to the wall across from his desk. "Not the chair- you are too dirty. The bench. It can be wiped down after you leave." He caught the eye of one of the older boys passing by. "Tom Weston. Where would Holmes' 1st School* be now? Save me the trouble of looking up his abracadabra*, will you?"

The blond boy looked at the Porter. "He's up to* Greek, sir, with Master Callum. I'm next door with Latin. James School, Room 23."

"Right you are. I want you to take a message to him. Interrupt if you have to, just get him back here as quick as possible. Tell him …something calling himself his brother is waiting here."

The blond looked over at the filthy thing, now sitting with his knees tucked up and his arms wrapped around his legs. He was looking at the floor. The tall boy smirked. "Yes, sir. I'd be delighted."

It would take Weston ten minutes to get to James Schools across the High Street, and then ten minutes for Holmes to return. In the meantime, the Deputy House Master decided that he needed to defer to a higher authority when it came to small dirty boys. He picked up the House phone on the wall by the Slab* and called the Dame, but the phone in her rooms rang without being picked up.

oOo

Mrs Ranstor came walking down Eton Wick and turned right onto College property, heading onto the paved path beside Waynflete House. She glanced across the tree lined grounds and her eye was caught by the sight of an older boy running full tilt toward the Godolphin House front door. At first he was on the pavement, tails* flying, dodging boys on their way in the other direction towards School House; he was ducking and diving between them. Then she watched as he gave up fighting the tide and stepped off, running free on the lawn. She glanced at the pedestrians and hoped there wasn't a beak* amongst them, because that infringement of the rules would earn him a summons to the Godolphin House Master. In theory, she should report him. As the running boy closed the distance she recognised him as Mycroft Holmes. _Really? An OS and member of the Sixth Form Select*?_ With a start, she thought she'd never seen him even walk quickly, let alone run. A slack bob*, he was more into debating, chess and cerebral activities. Not the sporting type at all, Holmes. She'd always thought of him as rather a cold fish. Never a foot wrong, a word out of place, almost too perfect to be human. She'd not warmed to him much over the three years; he was rather remote and aloof from the high spirited sporty types that usually got elected to be House Captains. She knew he was the heir to one of England's oldest aristocratic families, and that separated him, too. Whatever it was to get him acting this much out of character, it must be earth-shattering. She quickened her pace, and as a result, got through the front door of her house just a moment after Holmes charged through the front door.

In time to see an extraordinary scene…Holmes was kneeling on the floor in front of someone sitting on the bench against the left wall. Someone who was incredibly filthy and very small…a boy, whose head was down on his tucked up knees, hiding his face.

" _Sherlock!"_ Holmes was panting, but trying not to shout. He seemed to collect himself for a moment, then, calmer, reached out his right hand towards the boy on the bench, splaying his fingers out widely. "How on earth did you get here? What's happened? Are you alright?"

The muddy figure didn't move his head, but a spindly arm came out of the heap of dirt and small fingers reached out, so that Mycroft could touch his fingertips to them.

Mrs Ranstor exchanged a startled glance with the Deputy, who shrugged his shoulders. The Dame stepped across the stone floor. "Mister Holmes, would you care to explain what is going on and who this person is?"

The sixteen year old pushed his straight chestnut brown hair away from his eyes, and said between panting breaths, "M'am…. This is my brother, Sherlock…. He's nine years old…he's been missing from home for five days…and four nights."

That took a few moments to sink into Caroline's thoughts. _This was why he was on the phone last Thursday._ The sixteen year old slipped his fingers away from his brother's and took a firm hold of the child's wrist. "Sherlock, answer the question. How you get here and where have you been for the past five days?"

A small voice emerged from the folded up child. "Same answer to both questions- I walked here."

Mycroft's reply was quick." You… _walked_ … here. From home? But…that's… sixty miles away." His incredulity was clear.

" _More_ than sixty. Fifty seven by the road mileage chart, but when you walk, it's a lot further because there's no direct path. I had to go around a lot of …stuff." The small boy lifted his head, looking at his brother, who sank back on his heels and released his brother's wrist, reaching up instead to point at the small boy's face. "How did you get _that_?"

There was no answer, but Caroline Ranstor saw a furrow crease across the muddy forehead. That's when she also saw the purple bruising under all the dirt – the young boy had a hell of a black eye and bruising all down the right side of his face. The white of his right eye was also bloodshot.

She took charge. "Right, Mister Holmes. You and I are taking your brother into my rooms where you will call your parents and tell them the good news. Then we will get him cleaned up and get that face looked at by the school doctor."

"Yes, m'am." Mycroft helped his brother to his feet, but the boy's knees wobbled. Mrs Ranstor said quickly. "Just pick him up; he's exhausted. Your clothes, we can clean; his, I fear, are beyond redemption." She turned to the Deputy. "Write this up in the book, Master Bates. Don't want Mister Holmes getting a Tardy Book.*

Mycroft reached down and picked up his brother, who started to protest and struggle. "No, Myc, put me down! I can walk!"

"Shut up, Sherlock. Just do it the way Mummy taught you." The boy went a bit stiff for a moment in his brother's arms, then seemed to calm. His legs wrapped around the 16 year old's waist. Mycroft put his own hands clasped together under his brother's bum, so the boy was sort of sitting on his brother's arms, and then the boy leaned in and wrapped his thin arms around his tall brother's neck. It looked a bit odd, but it seemed to work, as the older boy followed Mrs Ranstor carefully up the stairs to her room. Behind her, she could hear the two talking quietly.

"Sherlock; you _stink!"_

"I was chased by a farmer's dog, and I slipped into slurry."

"It's revolting. How can you stand it?"

"After a while, my nose just stopped caring."

"My tails are going to reek."

"Yeah, well, they're stupid to wear. Not practical."

"Well. I wasn't planning on carrying a sack of …excrement when I put my clothes on this morning."

There was a silence.

"Why did you run away?"

No answer.

Then she reached her door and unlocked it. "Can you manage to take off your shoes, Holmes? I expect you have mud on them from your run here. And, please, for the sake of my carpets and the bathroom rug, don't let your brother down until you can put him straight into the bathtub."

She bent down and pulled Mycroft's shoelaces free of their bows, so he could toe the black leather shoes off. She steadied him when the extra weight of his brother threw him a little off balance, and then pointed him toward the bathroom door, which was ajar.

"I need to call my mother, Mrs Ranstor. She's frantic; worried sick about him. There's a police search and …everything."

"I will take care of that young man; you just focus on your brother. In there. "

She had gone into the little kitchen- a galley really, and came out with a black rubbish bag. "Put his clothes in here. We'll bin them straight away. It's probably best to use the shower first to, um, remove some of the topsoil, before you try to put the plug in."

" _Nooooo_." There was an edge of panic in the nine year old's voice, who by now was sitting in the empty bathtub, fully dressed.

"Just leave this to me, m'am. He really can't cope with showers. He's hypersensitive and it upsets him. I'll just run the tap for a while, before putting the plug in."

She gave him a slightly odd look, but then carried on. "Right. I'll call your mother now. You can leave the door open, if you want to hear me speaking with her."

Mycroft turned the mixer tap on, and adjusted it so it was warm, but not too hot.

A moment later, she called out, "What's the number?"

He was pulling Sherlock's left shoe off, and spotted a bloody sock. "0903 742021." Peeling the sock away, he saw the burst blister. "Wash that now- under the tap." Sherlock complied as Mycroft put the shoe and sock into the black plastic bag.

"Hello? Could I speak to the Viscountess Holmes, please? This is Caroline Ranstor from Eton."

There was a pause.

"I think she _will_ want to speak with me. Tell her that I have _both_ of her sons in my rooms here at Godolphin."

Mycroft took off his tails and laid them on the sink, then his waistcoat, before rolling up his sleeves. "Right, Sherlock. Off with those clothes, and I'll put them in the bag." As his brother stripped, Mycroft took a good look at the spindly limbs of his brother as he started to emerge from the filthy clothes.

"My God, Sherlock, you're dirty even _under_ the clothes. Your skin is actually _black_ …"

That earned him a glare. "I _told_ you- I fell into a slurry pit. What did you expect? Of course, I'm going to get soaked through."

"When did that happen? Where?"

"That was near Chobham; a farm on Pennypot Lane. That was, um, the night before last. Well- it was about 4 o'clock, so morning, I suppose."

Mycroft frowned down at Sherlock, who had just taken off a ripped and torn sweater, and was pulling his shirt off. Underneath, he could see filthy skin and a great jagged cut across Sherlock's side.

"How did you get _that_?"

"Barbed wire. I tripped over some that had been stepped down by cattle, so it was hidden in the nettles. Took me ages to get free of it."

Mycroft shuddered. Rusty barbed wire. He wondered when Sherlock had last had a tetanus booster shot.

"Your Ladyship, yes, yes. Caroline Ranstor here; I'm the Dame at Godolphin…I have your youngest son here. He just showed up at the house. Mycroft is with him now, getting him cleaned up and sorted. We'll have a doctor check him over, too." The Dame's voice was calm and authoritative. Mycroft smiled. She must have had a lot of experience over the years in dealing with panicky parents.

"No, actually, he seems fine in himself. Apparently, he walked here from your home. Pretty amazing adventure for a nine year old." Another pause, then "Filthy and I expect both tired and hungry, but nothing too dramatic."

The elder Holmes looked at the bruised face and bloodshot eye, the cut, and the scratches on his little brother. Well, given that Mummy had believed his brother dead in a ditch somewhere, he supposed that the injuries were minor in comparison.

"Sherlock, how did you get the black eye? Did someone hit you?"

That made Sherlock stop struggling with the knot in the lace of his other shoe.

"I can't tell you. I'm not allowed to." Mycroft digested that answer as he just pulled the shoe off and stuffed it into the bag with the other debris, then helped Sherlock get his torn trousers off and the pants. He heard the Dame out in the living room.

"Yes, of course. Just bring some clean clothes and something warm. He'll be presentable by the time you get here. And I expect your elder son will have gotten more of the story out of him by then, too. Just take a deep breath, your ladyship. The nightmare's over. He's safe."

 _Yes, LOTS of experience at reassuring parents._ Mycroft pulled Sherlock's arm into the stream of water from the tap. "Get wet, Sherlock- you need to rinse some of this shit off before you can get to the real grime."

"Yes, of course, your ladyship. We'll see you shortly. Goodbye now."

The bathroom door was pushed open a bit wider, but she didn't come in. "I'm going to go down to the laundry to see if we have anything remotely small enough for your brother could wear until your mum gets here. Won't be gone more than a couple of minutes. Shut the door now to keep the stink in there, please." Caroline Ranstor was practical and dealing with things brilliantly. Mycroft had always liked her.

He finished tying off the ends of the black bag, and then picked up the air freshener spray can. "Don't panic; I've just _got_ to try to make this place smell better or she won't be able to get the stench out for days."

Sherlock's face screwed up at the hissing noise. A cloud of artificial lavender descended in the bathroom."That's _revolting_."

Mycroft suppressed a laugh. "Not compared to you, it isn't."

He wet a flannel and worked some soap into it, then handed it to Sherlock. "Wet a bit of you under the tap and then scrub; don't just wash. If you don't do it properly, then I will, and I know you won't like that." He'd seen the scrapes and scratches on Sherlock's knees and arms, and worried about infections. _A slurry pit is bacteria heaven._

Then his brain caught up with what Sherlock had said. "You knew the name of the road where the farm was. Was it signposted?"

"No; it was on the map."

"You took a map with you? Is that why you didn't get lost?" _How sensible._

"Well, sort of. I didn't take them with me. It's just in my head. All of it. The roads, the footpaths. The buildings, fences, hedges, the bridleways, stiles- everything that's on the Ordinance Survey maps, the topographical ones that the geography tutor brought me months ago. I asked him for all of them between the house and Eton. I was curious about where you were."

Mycroft watched the brown water running off and down the plug hole. Sherlock was scrubbing, and some pink skin was appearing from under the dirt. "You… _memorised_ all of the maps. What, for the whole way from Pulborough to here?"

"Yeah… wasn't hard." Mycroft watched as Sherlock scrubbed his right knee particularly vigorously, and digested that comment.

He picked up another flannel, and wet it, got it soapy. "Lean forward; I'll do your back while you carry on. You can't reach it," all the while thinking through the implications of a photographic memory and the nous needed to translate obscure symbols into a living landscape in front of his brother as he walked.

"Just do it hard, Myc, please." Mycroft knew that a soft touch was like a torture for his brother. A firm hold or a fierce scrub seemed to overload the nerve endings in the skin, and it became more bearable somehow.

"Sherlock, weren't you scared?"

"Only time I got scared was when people tried to talk to me, or shouted at me. I ran away from them. It was easier to walk at night. Best then, the moon's nearly full, so it was easy. Nobody to get in the way."

"When did you sleep?" Then that thought was followed quickly by another realisation. "Did you have anything to eat? When did you last _eat_ something?"

Sherlock stopped scrubbing for a moment. "It's…Monday today, isn't it?" Mycroft nodded. "Well, then it was about three o'clock in the morning on Saturday. I found a sealed tub of coleslaw and some cold chips – that was on the edge of Horsham, behind a fish and chip shop. I had an apple I took from home the day before."

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment. He was so _shocked_ about what his brother had done. All alone, across country, with nothing but his memory of the maps. Probably very little sleep and even less to eat. Most _normal_ boys couldn't do that. They wouldn't even attempt something so…crazy.

He reached in and put the plug into the bath, and turned the taps so the water would fill more quickly now. "You need to get your hair sorted, and your face. As soon as it's deep enough slide down and get it wet. I'll wash your hair for you, while you get on with the rest."

For a few minutes, neither boy spoke; they just focused on getting the job done. When Sherlock's hair was wet, Mycroft squeezed some of the Dame's shampoo onto his hands and started to rub it into the mop of curls. "You need a haircut."

"Yuk. That smells awful."

"No, it doesn't; it smells like strawberries."

"Why would anyone want _hair_ to smell of strawberries?" Sherlock muttered.

Then Mycroft couldn't wait any longer. He was watching his brother gingerly using the flannel to rub the dirt off the bruised side of his face whilst trying to keep the shampoo out of his already sore eye.

"You're going to have to tell me, Sherlock, about your face and how it got bruised. If you don't, then other people are going to insist on questioning you- the police have been searching for you. Mummy will not let you ignore it. Better to tell me; then I can tell the others for you. The truth; I'll know if you are lying."

"I _can't._ Father told me I wasn't to tell anyone."

That made Mycroft stop scrubbing the filthy hair. "Father…" Mycroft deduced the next part against his better judgement. "He _hit_ you." It was said very, very quietly.

"Noooo, Myc, you're not supposed to know! He said I was to say _nothing_. He's going to lock me away, send me away to a school where they'll lock me up. You _can't_ tell!" Sherlock's voice was getting seriously panicky. He started to pant.

"Calm down, Sherlock. Just breathe in. Come on, do it! Now hold it; let me count. One…two…three…four." Mycroft watched his little brother follow his instructions. "Let it out now." He repeated the cadence until the little boy's breathing calmed. "Tell me what happened."

"I can't! He'll send me away! That's why I came to find you. Mummy's away and I got scared he would send me away because there was no one to stop him, so I left the house. If he couldn't find me, he wouldn't be able to do it. I couldn't get to France but I knew I could find you, so I just left."

"Ok, I understand that. But _why_ did he hit you?"

His little brother's lower lip was quivering. "I tried. I really did, Myc; it's not fair. I tried to do what Mummy said. He hates it when I talk; says I talk _at_ him. She told me to ask questions, and listen to what others say. So I did, but he got so _mad_ at me!"

"What did you ask?"

"I asked him when he was going to tell Mummy about his girlfriend. Her name is Meggie James; she works for him and they went to Singapore together. I think she's the kind of friend that involves sex stuff."

Mycroft's fingers stopped rubbing the shampoo suds into the brunet curls. He drew a deep breath and tried to come to terms with what he'd just heard. _Father is having an affair._ He managed to choke out, "Proof? What proof do you have of…this idea of yours?"

"He said I was to never tell anyone; said I was lying. But, I wasn't! I _heard_. He was on the phone to her; talking about Singapore and how much fun they had together. He said he was looking forward to their next trip together; he was taking an early flight so he could spend more time in bed with her. Mummy's told me about men and women who are friends and share a bed to do sex. That's what he was talking about, I know it. And I can _see,_ too. There were receipts on his desk; he just left them there, so I didn't think he cared. They shared a hotel room, had dinner in the room- she signed for it, and he bought her presents. And anyway, what made him so angry? I don't understand that. Why can't Mummy know he has a girlfriend?"

He didn't doubt Sherlock. The boy wasn't prone to lying; he was too…artless for that. Mycroft struggled to find a way to explain it to his little brother. "Father isn't supposed to have a friend like that, Sherlock. Only Mummy. He wants you to keep his secret because he knows it will upset her. It's not your fault, and he should _not_ have hit you. And _no_ one is going to lock you away or send you away from home. You're going to leave this to me. I will explain things to Mummy. But it needs to be kept private- don't tell the police anything other than the fact that you walked here to find me. Don't tell them about Father hitting you and don't tell them about this Meggie person. Promise me that?"

Sherlock nodded. "You won't let him send me away?"

"No, of course, not. "

Satisfied, his little brother shrugged his shoulders. "Okay. Are you done yet, because I really want to get the strawberry stuff out of my hair."

oOo

As soon as he was out of the bath, and dressed in a pair of too big sweatpants and sweatshirt brought up from the laundry, Sherlock was given a hot chocolate, and he just wolfed down two pieces of toast with jam. No sooner had he put the last bite in his mouth, however, when the school doctor arrived. Sherlock took one wide-eyed look at him and asked to go to the bathroom. Moments after the door shut behind him, Caroline was distressed to hear the sound of vomiting.

Mycroft tried to explain things quietly. "He doesn't like doctors for a good reason. He's had so many since he was a baby. He's developmentally challenged, exactly how and why no one is sure. Sherlock is highly intelligent, but can't deal with people properly, especially strangers. He is hypersensitive. He doesn't like to be touched. If he gets too stressed, he'll have a panic attack or a tantrum."

It took Mycroft ten minutes to talk Sherlock into coming out of the bathroom and sitting back on the sofa long enough to be examined. After poking and prodding under the sullen eyes of the boy, the doctor pronounced, "Nothing broken, but that's a nasty shiner. The eye appears to be okay. I can't see any retinal issues, but get him checked by an optician just to be sure." He prescribed an antibiotic ointment for the various scrapes, cuts and put a moleskin bandage on the blister.

The worst moment was when he decided to give Sherlock a tetanus booster. The boy bolted right off the sofa and was half way out of the room before the doctor managed to get the hypodermic syringe all the way out of his bag. Mycroft intercepted him by the door, caught his wrist and scooped Sherlock up, carrying him back to the sofa.

"Stop this. You _have_ to have the shot, Sherlock. The barbed wire was rusty."

Over more cries of "nooooo" and lots of squirming, Mycroft managed to get him in a bear hug and just held on while the doctor did the injection. It took Sherlock almost ten minutes after the doctor left to get his breathing back under control.

"Mycroft, is there anything I can do?" Caroline Ranstor was anxious- she'd seen panic attacks in boys before, but this one seemed more severe.

"Just wait." He was holding his brother in a very tight embrace, but at least the nine year old wasn't shouting anymore, or struggling. Eventually, Sherlock calmed down enough to be sat next to Mycroft, wrapped up in a blanket on the couch. He glared at his brother.

"Don't look at me like that, Sherlock. Just be glad the school doctor did it, because otherwise Mummy would have taken you to a hospital." That comment made Sherlock bury his head under the blanket. "Nooooo." It tailed off into something like a whimper.

Caroline brought both of the boys another mug of hot chocolate. Mycroft had missed lunch and was probably hungry, but he'd politely declined the offer of a sandwich, and Sherlock wouldn't even answer her question, nor look at her directly. He was more rattled now than at any time since she'd first seen him. _He can walk halfway across southern England without blinking, and then freak out about a needle._ Not for the first time since she'd seen the two Holmes brothers together, she wondered about how having such a challenging sibling had shaped the star pupil she knew.

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was half asleep, his head in his brother's lap. Mycroft just kept a firm hold on his brother's wrist, but that seemed enough to comfort the youngster, who quietly drifted off.

"Are _you_ alright, Mycroft?" Caroline was watching the pensive look on the sixteen year old's face. He was lost in his thoughts. When he looked at her, she saw for the briefest moment a look of real pain.

Mycroft Holmes was something of an enigma to her. Always polite and impeccably correct, he was frighteningly bright- had work regularly on show-up*, been sent up for good*, and earned the three consecutive distinctions to be named an Opedian Scholar*, then gone on to join the Sixth Form Select*. Reasonably popular with the rest of the house, and yet, with surprisingly few, if any, close friends, Mycroft had never seemed, well… _real_ to her, until tonight. And he was obviously troubled now.

"What is it, what's upsetting you?"

"M'am, do you know if...if a marriage can survive when the husband has an affair and the wife finds out about it?"

Whatever she was expecting him to say, this wasn't it. She considered. She had to deal with these sorts of questions all too often; but in this case, she wondered what the linkage was with his brother's adventure. "It's possible, Mycroft. A lot depends on the people involved, and whether they want to make the marriage work. Sometimes, two people just drift too far apart, in which case, divorce can be the best way." She watched as he took this in. "Are your parents in this predicament?" She asked it gently.

He looked down at his brother. "I think so, and Sherlock discovered it. They don't get on- my father and Sherlock. He can't accept that any son of his isn't …perfect. He cares so little that he left on an overseas business trip the day after Sherlock was first reported missing." Mycroft didn't hide his disgust at this behaviour. "I get it now. It's because he knows Sherlock discovered the affair. I know my father will hope our mother doesn't learn about it, but I don't see how she won't, when she learns why Sherlock ran away." Mycroft was now looking distressed. " _I'm_ going to have to tell her. If I leave it to Sherlock, he'll say it badly; he doesn't understand these things. But…I've never had to do this sort of thing before. She's going to be _so_ upset."

She thought about it. "What I can say in terms of advice is, don't tell her tonight. She's going to be in a right state because of getting Sherlock back. Let her get over that before you talk about the whys and wherefores."

He nodded. "Yes... That's good advice. I wonder, though, whether there will ever be a _right_ time to tell her something so awful?"

Whatever she might have said next never got said, as there was a knock on the door, which was thrown opened and Violet Holmes, Viscountess of Sherrinford, swept into the room. A tall auburn haired woman, she had eyes only for her two sons. There was a soft " _Oh, Sherlock!"_ from her and then she was on her knees by the sofa, in front of Mycroft, her hand coming out to stroke the cheek of her youngest son, sound asleep in his lap. Caroline was only glad that his head was turned so that the bruising and the black eye were hidden. Then the Viscountess looked up at her elder son, with tears in her eyes. "Thank you, Mycroft, thank you _so_ much for finding him."

"I didn't find him, Mummy; he found _me_. He walked all the way here because he was afraid that father was going to send him away to a special needs school while you were away."

She rocked back on her heels, shocked. "I would _never_ let him do that, Mycroft. _Never._ If your father ever did such a thing, it would be over my dead body**." She looked down at the sleeping child, and then turned to the Dame, as if seeing her for the first time. "Mrs Ranstor, can I please take _both_ of my boys home now? I promise to return Mycroft tomorrow, but when Sherlock wakes up, he will need to find his brother there. In his own way, he loves Mycroft very much and misses him dreadfully."

Caroline smiled. "Yes, I think that can be arranged. I will clear it with the House Master. Now go home, and be together. You've all had a bit of a rough time over the past five days."

"I'll carry him, Mummy. Is the car just outside?" Mycroft levered the sleeping Sherlock into his arms and was helped to his feet by his mother. As he left, he caught Caroline's eye, and mouthed a silent, "Thank you" before being herded out by his mother. And, that was when Caroline Ranstor realised that Mycroft Holmes was a human being after all.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Eton has its own slang words, whose meanings have developed over the past hundred years. Eton boys (and it is ONLY boys) are boarders, living in houses. Each house has a House Master, but there is also a female, the Dame* who looks after the boys' "domestic" needs, and who serves as a bit of a maternal figure in the absence of mothers. She is always called "m'am"
> 
> *1st School- Eton boys don't have "classes", they have "schools", the first of which would be the first class of the day after breakfast.
> 
> *abracadabra- a boy's schedule that tells him where he has to be at every hour of the day.
> 
> *"up to" = attending
> 
> *tails = the black tailcoat that is standard Eton uniform, worn over grey pinstripe trousers, with a black waistcoat
> 
> *beak = teacher, a Master
> 
> *OS = Oppidan Scholar, awarded when a boy earns a distinction in his trials (exams) over three consecutive terms.
> 
> *Sixth Form Select= the academic elite of Eton College, the top ten Oppidans and the top ten Collegers.
> 
> *sent up for good = when a boy does an exemplary piece of work so outstanding that it is sent to the Head Master and lodged in the College Library.
> 
> *Show-up = when a piece of work is recognised as excellent by his Division master, it is signed by the House Master and the tutor.
> 
> *Slab = message board in a house
> 
> *Tardy Book = a register that boys have to sign in the morning, if they are reported being late for a class.
> 
> **Oh dear, when Mummy says "If your father ever did such a thing, it would be over my dead body", well, it's prophetic words. Check out Periodic Tales for what happened next.


End file.
